


Trustfall

by Anonymous



Series: Trustfall [2]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, Reader-Insert, Trust Issues, Villains, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A reworking of a pair of drabbles (Hurt/Comfort) previously published.The reader's home is an IMF safehouse. She's caught in a dangerous situation when Walker's true loyalties are revealed. He wounds her in the leg and flees only to return several weeks later, presumed dead and in need of a discreet hideout. Through manipulation and coercion, the reader is reluctantly forced to agree to the arrangement. But is Walker signing up for more than he can handle?
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Series: Trustfall [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602274
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

You’re making coffee because that’s what you do when you have guests. You offer to make them a hot beverage. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that you want to hide in the kitchen for ten minutes and catch your breath. And if the five men in your living room are not technically guests…well that doesn’t matter either.

When you enter the living room again, three of them–including the one with a hood over his head–are gone. You guess they’ve moved to another area of the house since you didn’t hear anyone leave. Ethan is sitting on your couch next to the imposing figure of a man you don’t know. Even sitting down you can see that the man is tall and powerfully built. His posture suggests he’s used to being in command and hints at the potential for violence. It’s a frightening prospect, but not unexpected–you got the same vibe from Ethan when he first approached you about setting up the safe house. You try to suppress the shiver of unease as you approach the pair.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Ethan says, taking the mug of steaming coffee from you. “This is Agent Walker. Walker this is Y/N, she owns this house and is kind enough to keep it available to my team….She’s a teacher.”

The last part is tacked on in a monotone and you watch as Ethan’s eyes turn cold and pointed toward Walker. He’s saying, without saying it, that you’re innocent–that you’re not involved in this life the way they are and that you should be protected at all costs. You feel a rush of appreciation for the sentiment, although it doesn’t do anything to calm your nerves.

“Nice to meet you,” you mutter. Your fingers touch as you hand him a mug and his blue eyes flick up to lock with yours.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he says. He’s all business, but his eyes hold yours for another beat and you feel your cheeks flush red. You’ve always hated how easily you blush. He’s handsome, you admit to yourself. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark mustache and stubble along his jaw. He’s very handsome. But the thought is completely abstract. Just an observation in the midst of your chaotic nerves. 

You turn to Ethan and excuse yourself. You’re not needed here and you’d rather not over hear whatever plans they’re working on. You’ll minimize your involvement in whatever way you can. It’s not as if you don’t have a choice. Ethan gave you the choice when you inherited this house from your father and he gave the choice again when he showed up at your door this morning–even though you’d already agreed and accepted the monthly payments in exchange for use of the house. He still gave you a final chance to back out, despite the team’s desperate need. He was a good man.

You retreat to the little room at the back of the house that your father used for a study and you use for a combo office/reading nook. There’s an oversized plush armchair in one corner and a worn desk stacked with homework folders and portfolios in another. Mismatched bookshelves line the walls and the hardwood floor is covered by an old, worn-out oriental carpet. It’s shabby but comfortable. You feel safe in here as you cuddle into the armchair and pull an afghan around your shoulders. You’ll get lost in a book and by the time you poke your head out again, maybe they’ll be gone.

Ethan and the rest of the team leave to head to their rendezvous leaving Walker behind to guard the prisoner. You emerge from your office starving and in search of something to eat. As you cross the hallway toward the kitchen you peek into the living room to find it empty. Walker must be upstairs with the prisoner. You should just leave them be but you remember the brush of Walker’s fingers against yours and the blue of his eyes as you looked up at you. Maybe you’ll offer him something to eat.

Your socked feet don’t make any sound as you dash up the stairs. You walk silently down the hall and you’re about to raise your hand to knock on the open door of your guest room when the voices you heard from the hallway form into coherent words and your hand freezes in the air. They’re talking about Hunt and his team…as if they’re working against them. As if they’re working together. 

Walker’s stance goes rigid and he turns slowly to face you. He’s transformed from the subdued version of himself you met downstairs. Where before there was the potential for violence, now it is very much present, blazing in his glare and lurking under the surface of his tense posture. You watch a muscle in his jaw tick and he shuts his eyes in irritation.

“Fuck,” he hisses and his hand goes to the side arm at his hip. “Nothing is ever easy.”

Your eyes widen in terror as he unclips the gun from his side and points it at you. Everything is happening to fast for your brain to keep up. A minute ago you were thinking about making lunch, now a man is threatening you with a gun. You hold up your hands, palms out, and beg for your life. 

“You don’t have to do this…I won’t…I won’t tell anyone anything!”

You’re backing away from him into the hallway, eyes dancing in every direction but always returning to the sight of his hands cradling the gun, finger tense on the trigger. 

“No…,” you moan. Your back hits the wall and you feel your knees give out as you slide slowly downward. Your legs splay out before you and you feel suddenly, absurdly ridiculous that you’re not even wearing any shoes and you’re about to be shot. 

Walker is standing over you. Your eyes are fixed on his feet and legs too scared to look up and catch sight of the gun pointed in your direction. You flick your gaze upward for an instant and see his face, jaw clenched in anger, eyes burning into you. He’s furious.

“Please don’t do this,” you whimper and pull your legs in to hug yourself into a ball–as if you can somehow disappear if you make yourself small enough.

Walker grunts and leans down, grabbing your right leg and pulling it away from your body. Before you can even begin to struggle he’s straightening it out along the floor and aiming his gun at your calf. 

He looks up at you and you’re caught in his gaze again just like before, a lifetime ago, downstairs. The same blue eyes and dark lashes that you’d found so captivating. Now all you can feel is dull fear. His face is unreadable but he finally addresses you with soft words, “Sorry baby.”

And then he pulls the trigger.

***

You’re only out of the hospital for a week when he comes back. Agent Walker. The traitor. The man who shot you in the leg and left you bleeding on the floor and all alone. 

When the bell rings you curse and struggle up from your position lying on the couch to hobble forward using the crutches you’ve only just been issued. The wound required two surgeries. The doctors tell you that your muscles may have been permanently damaged. You’ll require physical therapy and you may walk with a limp for the rest of your life. There had been questions–questions you didn’t know how to answer–when you first arrived at the hospital. And then, suddenly, there were no more people asking questions. You suppose Hunt and his team had something to do with that. You received a bouquet with a note in your hospital room. They thanked you for your service and wouldn’t trouble you any longer. The status of your home as a safe house was blown.

“Coming!” you call out as you reach the front hallway. 

You struggle to balance on the crutches as you fiddle with the deadbolt. The lock finally cooperates and you swing the door open. You throat goes dry in an instant and you clench your fingers around the doorknob in a white knuckle grip. He’s standing on your doorstep just like he did before, looking hopefully expectant. But this time he’s wearing weathered tactical gear instead of a suit and tie and one side of his face is covered in fresh pink scar tissue. He holds his hands loosely away from his body as if to appear harmless. Ha! Like you could ever forget the danger lurking behind his beautiful eyes.

“What–,” you croak and your mouth closes entirely. You take a moment to clear your throat. “What are you doing here?”

“Y/N,” he pleas, hands outstretched, “I’m not here to hurt you, I just want to talk.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” you reply, starting to shut the door in his face. 

He steps forward until his body is in the doorway, preventing your movement, “Please, just hear me out and then, if you want, I’ll leave here and you’ll never see me again.”

You mentally curse Ethan Hunt and his stupid team for leaving you in this position. If you were to believe them then you were completely safe because the man before you is presumed dead and no one else should know your address or its significance. He’s wedged half inside, half outside and you’re standing uncomfortably close in order to keep your leverage on the door. It’s painfully obvious how easy it would be for him to overpower you. He’s over six feet tall to your paltry five and a quarter inch height. He’s twice as broad as you are at the shoulders. But he just stands there awaiting your reply.

“Fine!” you sigh and back up awkwardly, nearly tripping over the damn crutches. 

You lead him back to the living room and collapse unceremoniously back into the nest of blankets you’d been cultivating before his unwelcome appearance. Walker perches awkwardly on the other end of the sofa and watches you with a guarded expression. You lift up your bad leg and rest it on a tower of pillows. There’s no cast as the bullet didn’t break any bones, but you’re wearing a brace to keep it immobile while the muscles heal from surgery. Walker has the grace to look ashamed as he sees you struggle to get comfortable, but he wisely makes no move to assist you.

When you’re finally done squirming you look at him expectantly and gesture with your hands for him to get on with whatever it is he came here for. Outwardly you look calm and collected. Inside your heart is racing and your thoughts are in a chaos of confusion. You’ve just allowed this man into your home, the same man who shot you in the *leg* with a *gun* only three weeks ago. Is he here to finish the job? Is he here to get information out of you? Why on earth could he be back here?

He briefly explains what’s happened since you last saw him. The bombs, the chase, the cliff. He’d landed on a ledge, miraculously surviving to terrorize another day, it would seem. And now he’s in the wind, off IMF’s radar and laying low. He has resources, allies, money. But he needs a place to stay. Someplace no one, including IMF, would ever expect.

You huff out an aggrieved sigh, “Why is my home a magnet for trouble?”

“No one will look for me here, Y/N,” he says, the look in his eyes is intense. “And I know you can be trusted.”

“If they think you’re dead won’t they not be looking for you, period?” you ask. “And why do you think you can trust me, Walker? You shot me…remember?”

Walker’s eyes are like chips of ice as he responds, “I can trust you because you know what I’m capable of…if you tell anyone.”

A shiver runs down your spine and you feel yourself shrink back from him into the cushions. So, he isn’t going to stick to the good guy act. Not when you have something he needs. You suppose it’s a relief, not pretending. But it leaves you little choice going forward.

“Y/N,” he goes on, voice softening somewhat. “I know Hunt was paying you. I have the resources available to continue that arrangement. I’ve looked into your background. I know you need the money…”

No, you think. No choice at all.


	2. Chapter 2

You make up the guest room because that’s what you do when you have a guest. Never mind that the guest is a (former?) terrorist…a double agent and a traitor. Never mind that you don’t strictly want him here and he’s less of a guest and more of a…passive captor. Never mind all that. Making the bed with fresh sheets and putting out clean towels is what you do when you have…a guest.

“So…,” you gesture to the open doorway. The same doorway where you stood frozen, three weeks ago, while he pointed a gun at you. The memory rises like an unwanted specter before your eyes and you need to take a steadying breath before you can go on. “This will be your room. Th-there’s a bathroom attached. The linen closet is just across from you if you need more towels or blankets. I had an extra toothbrush so I put that on the sink for you….a-and the kitchen is downstairs just across from the living room if you g-get hungry…”

You’re rambling and this really is absurd. The bastard may be paying you but there is no reason you have to be nice to him. It’s like your brain is short-circuiting. You hate him for what he did to you and for making you feel scared in your own home. But you’ve never had it in you to seek out conflict when you find it so much simpler to take the high road and be able to live with yourself as a “nice person.” It’s a dysfunction. You should probably see a therapist about it. Or hit him. Maybe you should hit him. 

In an effort to assert yourself you add, “And keep out of my room. And my office downstairs. I’m not agreeing to you having access to every inch of my personal space.” 

The effort is somewhat diminished when you spy the unreadable, hard expression on his face and tack on a “please” to the end of your demand. Damn it.

“Of course,” Walker smiles and how can it be allowed for him to look so boyish and charming? He’s a criminal! “This is still your home, Y/N.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It sure doesn’t feel that way.

***

It’s amazing how quickly you can become accustomed to the most bizarre changes. Before you know it a week has passed. Walker…August…keeps to himself in his room. He’s gone out a few times, always at odd hours. Sometimes he’s not back yet when you wake up in the morning. But for the most part he’s just…there. All the time.

You’ve spent every night since he came here laying in bed with your hands fisted in the blankets and your eyes locked on your door. His room is just on the other side of your bedroom wall and you can sometimes hear the muffled noises of him moving around at night. So far he’s respected your request that he not invade your space more than necessary but that can’t last, can it? You find yourself mentally reliving those terrible moments. The cold apathy in his eyes as he stood over you. The false concern in his words before he pulled the trigger. Why would he say he was sorry? If he was sorry…if he’d cared he wouldn’t have done what he did.

In the mornings, you feel tired, wrung out. This can’t go on. You’re due back at work on Monday and you can’t teach a class of second graders on no sleep. Friday afternoon you drive to the hardware store and purchase a sliding lock kit for your bedroom door. August is in the kitchen when you get home. He watches you set your bag on the kitchen table and remove the contents. 

You look up at him feeling absurdly guilty. You force yourself to square your jaw and look him in the eyes, “It’s for my bedroom…I can’t…I can’t sleep at night.”

August’s eyes flash with emotion before he carefully schools his features. He’s been trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible. For all he manipulated you into this situation he isn’t a sadist–he doesn’t want you to feel afraid. He just doesn’t know what he can possibly do to reassure you. 

He nods sensibly and comes over to inspect your purchase. It’s a simple sliding lock like the kind you’d see on a public restroom stall. He picks up the package turning it over in his hands. He’s standing right next to you, looming, and you’re aware again of his massive presence. You can feel the heat of his body and you can smell the scent of him. He smells like fresh soap and gun oil. You’re suddenly aware that he’s wearing casual clothes, a t-shirt and jeans and thick, white socks. The outfit makes him seem so normal, so human. Without your permission you feel your body sway toward him like a mosquito flying toward an electrified lamp. Why are you attracted to something that can hurt you?

“Smart,” he remarks, setting down the package, “but this type of lock won’t do much to keep out someone who’s determined.”

“What?” you ask sharply with a look of suspicion. Surely he must realize the lock is meant to keep out *him.* From the apologetic look he flashes you, you can tell that he does know. So why is he telling you this?

“Why don’t we head back to the store and find something more heavy duty?” he suggests.

***

Walking through Home Depot with August Walker at your side pushing a big, orange shopping cart is surreal. There’s no way you can forget who you’re with either because he draws attention. He’s tall, muscled and striking; people’s eyes are drawn to him like magnets. You wonder how he ever got by working under cover. 

He swings down aisle after aisle with a purposeful stride that leaves you nearly tripping over your crutches to keep up. When you reach the aisle with locks, doorknobs and other odds and ends he selects a heavy metal deadbolt from the wall display and tosses it into the cart.

He turns to you, looking doubtful, “Do you have a power drill at home?”

“Err…no,” you reply sheepishly.

He moves on: screws, drill, drill bits, a hole saw. Then he’s leading you to the back of the store and down an aisle lined with different style doors. You hook your hand into the crook of his elbow to slow him down.

“August!” you exclaim, practically out of breath trying to keep up with him. “I don’t need a new door.”

“Yes, you do,” he says simply and turns back to display. He selects a heavy steel door that looks more suitable for a jail cell than your bedroom.

“That’s hideous!” you snort, forgetting your anxiety and nerves.

August huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, “It’s secure.”

When the cashier rings everything up the total comes to over six hundred dollars. You widen your eyes and reach into your pocketbook with trepidation. You just don’t have that kind of extra money. August pulls out his wallet and hands over a stack of hundreds without batting an eye. You stare at him in shock and he just shakes his head as if it’s nothing. You are going to have a talk about household expenses. 

***

You watch him hang the new door, greasing the hinges and testing the swing of it opening and closing. You’re perched on the end of your bed and he’s standing in the doorway wearing a tool belt and changing out the bit in his drill to start making the hole for the deadbolt. You let yourself enjoy this bizarre, peaceful moment. Watching him do home repair is so…oddly calming. August could be your handyman or…your husband. 

But…he’s not, you remind yourself. No, this man is the reason you need a steel door installed in your bedroom in the first place. The reason you can’t sleep at night, the reason you have nightmares that cause you to wake up with tears in your eyes and a sob in your throat. You can’t–you cannot forget that. 

August finishes up installing the lock and the doorknobs. He takes his time tightening the final screws and checking that the lock slides effortlessly into position. As he fiddles with these adjustments he watches you from the corner of his eyes. You’re seated on the bed with your good leg tucked underneath you, chin resting on your palm and paying attention to everything he’s doing. Your posture is looser than he’s seen it since his arrival and he feels a rush of warmth in his chest that he can’t identify.

All he knows is he hates seeing the flash of fear in your eyes every time he catches you unaware. He hates seeing how tired you are in the mornings. And he really, really hates the muffled sounds of sobs that come from your bedroom late at night. He wants you to feel safe again. He knows he robbed you of that feeling. When he came here a week ago it was with the calculating intention of taking advantage of the damage he’d done and forcing you into a position of being at his mercy. But since he’s been living with you and witnessing the consequences of everything he’s done all he feels is an unfamiliar guilt eating away at his stomach and making him feel like worse than vermin. 

He swings the door closed and twists the lock into place with a satisfying click. He turns to you with a smile and a feeling of accomplishment that he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

“There,” he says, twisting the lock again and opening the door so that you don’t feel trapped with him in your bedroom. “Now you’re safe.”


	3. Chapter 3

The red, illuminated numbers on the digital alarm clock read 3:00 AM. August shoots from sleep, breathing ragged and forehead slick with sweat. He tries to turn over onto his side and gets tangled in the sheets. He grunts in frustration as he struggles and finally frees his long legs. It’s been a very long time since he had a dream. 

He’d touched your and you let him. He recalls the slip of his fingers along the smooth skin of your thighs, the yield of your lips under his, the little sounds you made. It felt…vivid and real. Fuck. He scrubs a hand over his face and grimaces at the feel of slick sweat against his palm. It’s been way too long living with this untouchable woman without taking a break to relieve his desires somewhere else.

And she is untouchable, he thinks. It doesn’t matter if he finds you attractive. Doesn’t matter if he’s seen you fresh from the shower wrapped in a towel with water pebbling on your flushed skin. Or if he’s fixated on the curve of your ass in those ridiculous, loud patterned leggings you wear around the house after work. It doesn’t matter if he’s found himself making excuses to spend more time out of his room just to be in your presence. None of that matters, he thinks, because this girl is utterly untouchable. Why? Because he did touch you once, in violence. And that’s not something he can forget or for which he can forgive himself.

He can try to make amends. He can try to be good to you. But if he’s really honest with himself he knows he’s still ruled by the selfish ego that has always governed his decision-making. If not, then wouldn’t he simply leave and let you live your life? It’s been over a month. More than enough time for August to reestablish contacts and build up a network of supporters and business partners. He doesn’t strictly need this house or its protection anymore. But he can’t bring himself to leave. He’s selfish. He can admit that to himself… in the dark.

He’s not going to be able to sleep again. Not with the threat of more dreams, more feverish touches and unquenchable desires. He gets up and slips soundlessly into the hall. He glances to his right at your door. It’s a habit, checking in on you. It’s been weeks since he installed the new door and he knows you never sleep without sliding the bolt into place. It’s a comfort to him as much as it is to you. He can lie to himself and say that he’s keeping you safe. From what?

Your door is ajar. A crease forms between his eyebrows and he immediately feels the cold shiver of training slipping into place inside him. His eyes flick up and down the hall and his ears strain to hear anything out of place. Nothing. He creeps toward the door and pushes it further open with just a finger. The bed sheets are crumpled and slept-in but you’re clearly absent. He tells himself you probably can’t sleep either. Maybe it’s contagious.

Despite the logical conclusion August still feels the spooky chill of a covert operations officer and slinks down the stairs with discretion. There’s a soft glow coming from the living room and when he rounds the corner he sees you sitting on the sofa staring at the television. He glances at the screen, it’s some sitcom you’ve been binge-watching lately. You’re dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and sleep shorts. Your hair is up in a messy bun. You look tired–it is three in the morning–but it’s not the exhaustion you wore during his first weeks here. He thinks you’ve become more comfortable with him here. He hopes. 

The leg brace came off a week ago, but you still carry the limb gingerly. You have it propped up on a pillow on the coffee table at the moment. August makes himself clumsy, scuffs his feet and knocks a hand along the wall as he appears in the doorway. He watches your face as you look up at him; he’s alert for any sign of fear. You’re startled at first, but then your features soften and you greet him in a low whisper as if there is anyone else here to be quiet for.

It’s dark in the room except for the TV. It’s very, very late and August feels like he can be brave. Brave in a different way than he’s used to. He walks over to the couch and sits next to you, sinking into the plush cushions much closer than he usually allows himself. There’s only an inch or so of space between your leg and his.

You’re still watching him, eyes wide with surprise, but there’s still no fear. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. He pitches his volume low as well. It’s as if any loud noise, any sudden movement might break the magic of this moment that allows him to pretend, just for a while, like he belongs here–like this is normal.

You watch him for another beat before you turn back to your show and shrug, “Nope. I’m just wired. I drank coffee too late in the day, it’s my own fault.”

He lets out a breath that’s a laugh and finds himself watching the show along with you. You’ve watched it the last few nights after dinner and you’ve allowed August to sit in the living room with you while you watch. That’s how he thinks of everything he does in this house–you allowing him. You allow him to eat the meals you prepare. He washes the dishes. You allow him to lounge in the living room at night instead of holing himself in the guest room. You’ve allowed him so much despite what he’s done.

He sinks further into the couch and perches his bare feet up beside yours on the coffee table.

“Wait,” he says, a look of confusion on his face. “I thought those two were together?”

You turn your head and find that you’re eye to eye, both leaning back with your heads resting on the couch cushions. You’re in each other’s gaze, his blue eyes are just as striking and intense as they were the first time he caught you with them. What a stupid thought. You worry your bottom lip with your teeth and his gaze flicks down to watch your mouth. He swallows. This is getting out of hand…what was the question?

“Uh…oh, well they are. Well…he betrayed her so she’s ignoring him and seeing that other guy but…they’ll get together in the end. They better,” you laugh. “I didn’t know you were getting so into the show?”

He smiles with his Crest-perfect teeth and you definitely don’t feel anything resembling butterflies in your stomach. Because that would be insane.

“It’s growing on me,” he responds. 

The episode ends and the next one starts. It’s Friday night so at least you don’t have to worry about getting up for work in the morning. He stays with you and watches. It’s nice. You can forget who he is and just enjoy the comfort of having another person, another soul with you in the quiet dark of the small hours. His body heat envelops you and you feel yourself leaning in, your body relaxing until you’re pressed to his side, your head resting against his shoulder, eyes slipping half-closed. It feels so natural finally to let go. You’ve been circling around him like a satellite for weeks. Never making contact but always drawn to his gravity. To finally let yourself fall toward him like a meteor…it feels good. You can admit it to yourself in this twilight time when everything is half-dream anyway.

August lets his surprise show for an instant and then he feels his muscles loosen as if he’s finished a marathon and can finally rest. A smile tugs at his lips and he slips his hand across your lap to rest it lightly above your knee. It’s bold and he nearly draws back, but he doesn’t dare do anything to upset the sanctity of this moment. You surprise him again by leaning into the touch and wrapping an arm around his arm to hug him closer. He’ll gladly stay like this all night if it means basking in the heat, the absolution of your touch.

You drift off to sleep, clinging to his side like a spider monkey. Your leg has ended up curled up beneath you and you’ll surely pay for that with stiff, aching muscles in the morning. It doesn’t matter. August feels his eyes drifting closed, his head falling over to rest against yours and he thinks with a rueful sigh, So much for untouchable.


	4. Chapter 4

You wake the next morning with all the awkwardness and mortification it is possible to feel. Your arms are twined around August’s middle and your bad leg is screaming from being folded underneath you all night. There is an unmistakable drool spot on August’s t-shirt that you are choosing to ignore. 

To you, August seems just as cool and collected as always. He stretches, reaching his arms over his head, deliciously exposing a few inches of his stomach as his shirt hitches up. You don’t notice. His eyes flick to the clock on the wall and he huffs a resigned breath before violently cracking his neck. The blatant masculinity is positively overwhelming.

You clear your throat, “Uh…sorry about that. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here…with you.”

You slowly unfold your leg and hiss against the pins and needles, the painfully cramped muscles. August watches you with an inscrutable expression.

He grunts a noncommittal response, effectively ignoring your poor attempt to address the sudden, confusing intimacy of the previous night. You look back at him, at his unreadable face and realize, with a sinking stomach, that he plans to just pretend it never happened. 

He observes your nervousness with cool calculation. At least that’s how it seems to your eyes. You can’t possibly know that his thoughts are racing. That he’s recalling, relishing the feel of your small body pressed against him, the perfect trust that seemed to exist between you when your eyes drifted shut and you slept without a thought for the locked door that stood between you every night prior to last night. 

“Alright, then,” you chirp, needing to fill the silence. “I’m gonna jump in the shower…”

You trail off. As August shifts forward in his seat to stand up he lets his hand just graze over your shoulder in a comforting caress. It’s there and gone before you have time to process it. But it was definitely there. 

Maybe he wasn’t going to pretend last night didn’t happen.

***

In the days that follow neither of you brings up the strange night you spent holding one another. But the magic of that twilight hour seems to have had a healing effect. The air in the house is lighter. You feel the easing of the tension you’ve been unconsciously carrying around in your shoulders. And there are the touches. It feels natural. Right. That night had unlocked an intimacy between you that wasn’t quite forgiveness. It was more like an acknowledgement of things to come, of the possibility of things. 

Your fingers sliding together as he passes you a soapy plate to dry. The brush of your fingertips along the nape of his neck when you pass him sitting in the living room. And one night when he returns home very late with a blackened eye and a cut over his eyebrow. He walks through the front door and makes a beeline for you, sitting on the couch in the living room. He kneels before you on the floor and winds his strong arms around your waist, pressing his face into your soft stomach. You move your hands in soothing circles over his trembling shoulders. 

Things are…changing. And you want them to. You find yourself looking forward to seeing August at the end of the work day. Driving home with a smile on your face. And you worry when he stays out late…working. You feel the blossoming of possibility between you and you can see in his eyes and feel it in his touch, that he feels it too.

Of course things are bound to go wrong.

***

You’re running late, you don’t even have time to shower properly. You just stick your head under the shower spray to wet it and then throw your hair in a bun. Better than nothing. As you’re rushing out the door you hear August’s quick steps on the stairs. By now you realize he only makes noise when he wants you to know he’s there. Otherwise he’s capable of moving with ghostly silence.

“Y/N,” he calls, “you’ll be home late tonight, right?”

He’s dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and dark grey trousers. He must have business today. When he’s staying in he tends to dress down in denim and t-shirts or sweaters. At first you had found the sight of him in casual wear to be jarring–now it is the other way around. When he’s dressed for business you know there is the possibility of danger. You feel your heart in your throat at the idea of August being hurt and you wonder when that started, feeling protective of him.

“Yeah,” you reply, pushing away the question you have no answer for, “it’s my book club night tonight. I’ll be home around nine-ish.”

“See you then,” he says and takes a step toward you before stopping himself. 

You stand there for an extra beat, feeling like he’s left something hanging in the air between you. Finally you offer him a half-smile and wave goodbye as you walk out the door.

Stupid, he thinks to himself. What is he thinking? That he’s your husband, hugging you before you leave for work? This situation was getting confusing and he didn’t have time today to be distracted by feelings that would be better off ignored.

He needs to think over his plans for the day, the night. He’s arranged for a meeting between two clients, money for information. Simple. The buyer is most certainly a Russian SVR operative although he is representing himself as a businessman in need of insider intel. The seller, whom August will be representing, is some low-level DOD engineer looking to live dangerously. August will be taking a substantial finder’s fee from the deal which he’s arranged for this evening in the house. It isn’t ideal, but the original location he’d selected had spooked the Russian. So, this is his alternative. And it will be fine. It’s a one-time thing and it will all be fine. As long as he is certain that Y/N will arrive home well after his client departs.

***

“So, on a scale of one to dead how much trouble would I be in if I didn’t finish the book for book club tonight?”

You’re perched on the edge of your friend Jen’s desk wearing a sheepish expression. Jen’s classroom is next door to yours. You both started teaching in the same year and had naturally become fast friends. It is a little comical given how different you are. Jen is a garrulous, spiritual star-girl who spends her weekends at psychic fairs and you are a snarky, introvert with a natural skepticism for anything that can’t be verified in a double-blind study. There is just something inherently compatible and complementary between you that makes the friendship work. You suppose it’s a sense of humor and the fact that Jen never really pushes too hard to break into your personal space. Other than constantly bemoaning your lack of a dating life.

Jen laughs at your comically shamed expression and shakes her head in mock disgust, “Y/N…this is like the third month in a row you’ve asked me that question.”

“Hey! At least part of that time I was in the hospital. You know I’m going to milk that excuse for as long as I can,” you reply. You really enjoy being in the book club–it’s just Jen and a couple other teachers and it pretty much comprises the entirety of your social life since well before the shooting. 

As far as Jen and the rest of your coworkers know you were in a bad car accident. The lie has become easier for you to accept with time. Now you can joke about it.

“Mmm…no, sorry that’s not gonna cut it anymore,” Jen scoffs. “But…you’re actually off the hook because it turns out that Maddy and Lisa both had to cancel tonight, anyway.”

You raise your hands in mock victory, “Just as I planned all along!”

Jen rolls her eyes, “You want to go out for dinner at Zorba’s anyway?”

“Nope!” you chirp. “Canceled plans? I fully intend to go home and finish this damn book.”

“Uh huh,” Jen’s voice is laced with skepticism. “Don’t think I don’t know the real reason you haven’t finished it. You have a secret boyfriend, don’t you? It’s the surgeon who fixed your leg! You’ve fallen in love and are going to get married and have little surgeon babies!”

“Good grief! Next book is going to be strictly non-romance! You’re delirious!” 

You walk toward the door that adjoins your two classrooms and force a laugh as you wave goodbye. You can’t help it. The little stutter you feel in your heart at Jen’s words. It’s ridiculous because August is basically a scoundrel despite how nice he’s been acting to you lately. But you can’t lie to yourself. You’re happy to be going straight home after work instead of heading to bookclub. In fact the little bubble of happy anticipation in your chest floats you through your day until you’re once again driving home with a goofy smile on your face looking forward to seeing the man who has somehow, incredibly, managed to carve out a place in your heart.


	5. Chapter 5

The Russians haven’t been in the house for five minutes when August hears your car tires crunching on the gravel driveway. His eyes flick to the window and a look of panic passes over his face before he can suppress it. The two men he’s meeting with notice the change in his demeanor immediately. He watches them tense up and flash twin looks of suspicion his way. These guys are paranoid and that makes them dangerous. The muscles in August’s jaw tick as he clenches his teeth in frustration.

“What is the meaning–?” before the man’s sentence is complete there’s a sound of your key in the lock. The second man springs silently from his seat and dashes to the door before August’s hand can reach the gun at his hip. 

You’re precariously balancing a paper bag of groceries on your hip as you enter the house. Before you have time to process what’s happening there’s a blur of motion and then you’re tackled into the wall by a short, stocky man with a buzz cut and patchy facial hair. The groceries fall to the floor along with your hand bag and the man twists your arms painfully behind your back. 

“What,” he says, frog-marching you into your own living room, “is the meaning of this?”

August is standing with his gun drawn, pointing it at the second stranger who is still seated and looking intentionally casual with his legs crossed and his arm slung over the back of your couch. You can feel your breath spiral out of control as you skirt the edges of a panic attack. Your vision clouds and your head spins. Your bad leg begins aching inexplicably and you find that you can’t take your eyes away from August. The tense muscles in his arms and shoulders, his hands clamped around the gun, his eyes blazing with fear and hatred. It’s happening again. Just like before. Your stomach drops and your lower lip trembles as tears sting your eyes. You are so, so stupid. How could you think that things had changed? That he had changed? Fear is taking over and your whole body starts to shake. 

But no, a logical thought breaks in through the chaos. The gun isn’t pointed at you this time. And though you’re disgusted, betrayed and furious with August for putting you in this position *again*…you’re not afraid of him. 

It all happens quickly. The man holding you tightens his grip on your wrists with bruising force as you watch August move with deadly, matter-of-fact precision. He grabs a pillow off the couch, smothers it over the seated man’s face and presses the muzzle of the gun into the fabric. The blast is muted by the pillow and the man slumps sideways. He doesn’t pause, just propels over the back of the couch with fluid grace and launches himself at the man behind you. the man’s hands immediately release you and he starts backing away.

“Hey, man…we’re good…,” he stammers.

“Y/N,” August’s voice is a low grumble, but his hands are gentle as you guides you toward the stairs, “go upstairs. Lock the door to your room. Don’t open it until I come. Understand?”

It’s like your muscles are frozen in place. There’s supposed to be a flight-or-fight response kicking in, right? But you can’t move an inch. Your eyes are fixed on August’s intense blue stare and you find yourself reaching out and taking hold of his arm. 

“August…” There’s nothing you can say, but in this moment you’re terrified for him. You’ll walk out of this house with him right now and never look back if it means you can keep him safe.

Buzzcut watches the soft exchange and his eyes gleam with knowing and cruelty. He’s losing his cowardice the longer August hesitates. 

“Y/N…he knows where we live. I’m sorry, this was so stupid. I shouldn’t have brought them here. Go. Now.”

He’s already moving away from you, cocking his fists and rolling his shoulders in preparation for a fight. He still has the gun, but something in his voice, in his posture, tells you that he wants to take his time with this one… the man touched you.

You turn and flee before you see anything that you won’t be able to unsee. The lock in your bedroom door slides home but you feel none of the relief and safety that it once inspired. You might be safe up here but your heart is in your throat thinking of August downstairs in danger.

It’s quiet for several long minutes. The silence is unsettling. You have no clue what’s happening or if August is alright. There’s a sudden crash of breaking furniture and you flinch violently. Then more silence. How long has it been? You’re just standing rigid in the middle of your room too tense to sit. After an eternity you hear the sounds of purposely loud steps on the stairs. It’s August, it’s how he walks when he doesn’t wish to startle you. Without a second thought you rush to the door and unlock it, swinging it open. 

He’s standing on the other side of the threshold, a fresh cut on his forehead and a bruise on his cheek. He’s watching you with admonishing eyes.

“I told you…not to open the door…,” he’s out of breath and leaning slightly against the door jamb. He closes his eyes for a second, coming down from the adrenaline high of the fight. His breath comes in puffs and his hand reaches out unconsciously and takes yours. He raises it up to clasp against his beating heart.

“Oh, shut up, August,” you say and drag him forward over the threshold to your room and across the final boundary between you. He follows meekly and lets you lead him over to your bed. It’s covered in a loud, floral-patterned comforter and a stack of hand-knit throws. You push him down and pull a blanket over his massive form. He makes your queen bed look like a twin. Without stopping to allow yourself to think it through you climb in beside him and tuck yourself against his side. His head is sunk into your plush pillow and his eyes are closed in exhaustion. It’s not the exhaustion of the fight, you think. It’s the fear, the anxiety that’s drained him. You can understand.

“August?” you whisper, raising a finger and brushing it along the stubbled line of his jaw.

He opens his eyes, ocean-blue and bottomless, and finds your gaze, “Hmm?”

You smile crookedly and glance around you meaningfully, “You’re in my room.”

He hasn’t stepped foot in your room since installing the lock and door, not even after your relationship started transforming. It feels as if a final curtain has parted between you. August’s eyes light with understanding and an ounce of mischief. 

“So, I am,” he says and leans forward to press his lips against yours. 

His mustache and stubble are prickly against your soft skin. But his lips are impossibly soft and he parts your lips with his tongue in a sensuous stroke that heats your body and leaves you gasping for breath. This feels like the kiss you’ve waited your whole life for. It’s passionate and tender and desperate all at once. He cups your face in his hands and strokes his fingers through your hair. You kiss and kiss and kiss. And that’s enough for now. He retreats for a moment to take the measure of your gaze with a questioning glance. You’re not ready for more. Not yet.

There are two bodies downstairs and, almost certainly, a huge mess which August will be responsible for cleaning before long. But for this moment you lay together and he holds you in his arms. You feel the rise and fall of his chest, the flex of his muscles as he pulls you tighter against him. There’s the shadow of power, of strength that can be used in violence. Once that thought struck cold fear in your heart and now you feel nothing but safe in his arms. That power, that violence will never, ever be used against you again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the long awaited final part of Trustfall. I debated writing a more G-Rated ending, but I felt I kinda owed my readers some smut, lol. So this part is rated Explicit. Also, there is just a touch of Fem!Dom in here. It’s not really kinky, though, it’s more about the reader regaining control after August has been messing up her life for so long. Enjoy!

Your leg flares up worse than ever in the days following the disastrous meeting with the Russians. You’re not sure if the cause is psychosomatic–maybe the pressure and terror of that situation brought up feelings from the past–or if you re-injured the muscles running up the stairs. Either way you’re in pain. And August is acting more distant than ever which doesn’t do much to improve your mood. Every time you start to think you’ve made progress, moved forward into a new phase of being with him…he pulls away from you. **  
**

Not a word has passed between you regarding your kiss. Instead he shuts himself in his room and only emerges at meal times. But despite this distance he’s also been overly considerate for the last few days. One day you come home from work to find that he’s done all the grocery shopping for the week. You can’t remember how many times you’ve put off shopping and loudly proclaimed your disdain for the chore. And though he’s been staying up in his room, when he does emerge he finds you wherever you happen to be and brings you cups of tea without you asking. He finds you curled up with a book and drops an afghan blanket over your shoulders then walks away without a word. It’s just weird.

***

August stands over the stove stirring a pot of spaghetti. No one would call him a gourmet cook but he can manage pasta. Y/N is due home any minute and he’s already feeling the flare of shame and guilt that stabs at him whenever he sees her. It’s not just that he hurt her, shot her in the leg causing permanent damage. Although, yikes, that is a big part of it. But then he came back, forced himself into her life and started to fall for her despite his best efforts. Worse than that he watched as she developed feelings for him. Knowing all along how cruel it was to attach this girl any further to his life. Knowing that just being in proximity to him would put her in danger. And then he’d betrayed her again. Inviting that danger into her home and nearly suffering the ultimate penalty as a result. He should walk away. A good man would walk away.

All week he’s been struggling to keep himself from her. To insert distance between them to make it easier to…leave. But he hasn’t left, he’s lingered like a love sick coward. He’ll tell her tonight. Over dinner. It will be easier for both of them this way.

***

By the time you get home from work you have just enough energy to collapse onto the couch and reach for the remote control. Your eyelids are already drifting shut when August walks in balancing two bowls of pasta, a bottle of wine and two glasses in his arms. You scoot up a bit to allow him room on the couch and watch with an amused smirk as he sets everything carefully onto the coffee table.

Today was the class trip to the aquarium. With your leg hurting all week it had been close to torture having to spend four hours chasing around a bunch of seven-year-olds, but you made it. It feels absolutely luxurious to just stretch your legs out on the couch toward August and lean back into the cushions. You let out a long sigh and absently rub your calf, groaning in a mixture of pain and relief. You glance up at August to find him staring down at your leg, his mouth twisted in a frown.

“August?” you murmur, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Please talk to me, you’ve been so…quiet all week since…”

He looks up at you and you see that his eyes are glassed over with unshed tears. Your heart catches in your throat and you shift closer to him, wrapping your arms around his trembling shoulders. August collapses into you, pressing his face into the crook of your neck and clenching your blouse in his fists as if he’s afraid you’ll run away if he doesn’t hold onto you.

You can feel his tears, wet on your neck and he whispers your name into your skin, “Y/N…I’m…I’m sorry.”

You stay silent for a while, just holding him and rubbing soothing circles into his back. The man is over a foot taller than you and twice as wide, but he’s curled up in your embrace like a child. You press your lips into his curls and whisper, “I know, August… I forgive you.”

***

You take him to your bed and it’s not at all like you’d imagined. And you _have_ imagined it. In your fantasies August is always in control. His fierce violence broiling beneath the surface as he slams into you, pinning you to the mattress and taking his pleasure with masculine ferocity.

Instead he’s soft, quiet, compliant. He lets you hold his hand and guide him up the stairs and into your bedroom. You nudge him toward the bed and he falls onto his back, boneless, looking up at you with eyes that shine with adoration. You understand without him saying a word that he is giving over everything to you tonight: control, power, himself. He won’t take one more thing from you that isn’t freely, joyfully given.

In this room–only feet away from the place where you’d lay bleeding on the floor, where you’d begged him not to hurt you–you will reclaim your power.

You stand at the edge of the bed, looking down at this man–his divine body, his achingly beautiful face. You catch his eyes and smile, reaching out to hold his hand. You’re not sure why, but you think he needs the reassurance of physical touch as much as you do.

“I want you, August,” you whisper, voice ragged with emotion. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. I don’t want you to feel sorry or ashamed anymore. Do you understand? I’m giving myself to you.”

August’s lips part in awe at your words and at your overwhelming goodness and bravery. He doesn’t deserve you. But it’s not up to him to decide if he gets to have you. You’re giving yourself to him and he must accept you.

“Yes,” he hisses, sitting up and placing his palm flat against your hip. “I want you too, Y/N.”

“Take off your clothes,” you whisper with the hint of playful authority in your tone. 

August unbuckles his belt, squirms out of his blue jeans and pulls his shirt over his head. His body is like a prayer. You want to worship it. With trembling hands you start working at the buttons of your shirt, but your movements are slow and clumsy. August kneels before you on the bed and shoos your hands away, making quick work of the shirt and your bra underneath. He brushes his calloused fingers under the waist of your skirt and you moan in desire. You’re not sure when you first started wanting this. But it feels like it’s been forever. 

He pushes the skirt down and grasps your hips in his large hands, guiding you on the bed until you’re both kneeling on the soft mattress facing each other. Your breasts brush against his chest hair and you feel your nipples harden in response. Even kneeling, August is still a head taller than you. He dips his face down to yours and presses a soft, firm kiss to your lips. You twine your arms around his shoulders, climbing onto him and deepening the kiss, stroking your tongue into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his waist. He cups your ass in his hands, holding you up and kneading you with strong fingers. You grunt against his lips, his fingers are electric, sending waves of pleasure straight to your wet core.

August lets his balance shift, falling onto his back with you straddling his waist on top of him. Your hair falls in a shower around his face and you toss it to once side, desperately laying kisses on his lips, his cheeks, his neck, chest. You can feel his rigid cock brushing against your ass through the fabric of your panties. You rock your hips, rubbing against him and eliciting a hiss of pleasure from his lips.

“You are beautiful,” you whisper into his mouth as you capture his lips in another fierce kiss. When you pull back his pupils are dilated in wanton pleasure and his mouth is hanging open as you continue to rock your ass backward against his rigid length. “You want me, August?”

He nearly cries with desperation, “Yes, yes, I want you.”

You move off of him for a moment, shimmying out of your panties and tossing them to the floor. He does the same with his boxer briefs letting his thick cock spring free, straining into the air and begging for relief. Your eye’s gleam with delight and you shift downward, hovering over his cock and letting your hot breath brush over the head. August keens in need but he doesn’t move an inch, merely balling his fists into your comforter. He wants you so badly, but he’s determined to let you make all the first moves tonight. 

You brush your lips along the length of him, just the barest contact, rubbing his penis over your mouth, your cheeks, worshiping him. You’re throbbing with painful desire and you can’t wait any longer. You crawl up his body, swing your leg over his hips and sit back, guiding his cock inside you in a swift sudden motion. The intrusion is a delicious shock to your senses. You cry out in pleasure at feeling so full. August brushes his palms over your hips, begging for motion. You oblige, rocking on top of him and building up to a rapid pace. There will be time later to go slowly. Right now you can hardly bear the sweet ache of your building pleasure. August grips your hip with one hand and delves the other one into the space between you, brushing his rough fingertips over your clitoris and eliciting a shuddering whimper from you. He presses harder, circling the bud as you ride his cock. He’s about to come, rigid and twitching inside you. He vigorously rakes his fingers over your flesh, urging you over the edge with him. You let go.

You fall forward into his arms, muscles shaking and sweat coating your skin. He hugs you against him, pressing your face into his chest and grazing his fingers along your spine. He lays a soft kiss on your forehead and sighs. He can’t remember a time he’s felt so content.

You stroke your fingers through his chest hair and smile slightly, craning your neck to look up at him, “You’re mine now, you know. There’s no getting away from me now.”

August smiles down at you. Only an hour ago he’d been planning out how to tell you he was leaving. Thinking it was the best thing for both of you. Now, holding you in his arms with the aftershocks of your love panging through his body he rethinks things. Maybe it’s time to stop making decisions for you instead of with you.

“I’m yours,” he whispers with a contented smile, tightening his arms around you. “I’m not letting go.”


End file.
